Cyrus blinked, confused. His fingers curled around the edge of the bowl as if gripping it would somehow anchor him to her decision. "But—" he began, tone gentle, searching her face for some sliver of understanding.
"No, Cyrus." Isabella's voice was sharper now, a clear line drawn in the sand. She stepped forward, took the stone bowl from his hands, and placed it back on the nearby slab with a solid thunk. The sound echoed slightly in the quiet space.
She turned to him, eyes steeled. "Stop caring. You have no right to care this much."
That landed harder than she expected. Cyrus didn't flinch, but his shoulders dropped slightly, his head nodding once, slow and resigned. "Okay," he said quietly, the word barely above a whisper.
His eyes lingered on her face a moment longer before he looked away, his expression unreadable—but something was lost in his gaze. Disappointment maybe. Or something deeper.
